


Patterns

by Dana



Series: Patterns-verse [1]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a bad idea, of course it was. It's only ever been a very bad idea, even on the best of days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patterns

**Author's Note:**

> Short PWP is apparently not a thing I can do. This is more old fic, but something I decided to write because I was in a really OTP-crazy mood (I'm looking at you two, Sam and Gene). I'm still pretty fond of it, and as I'm in the process of crossposting all my stuff over here, this is just next on the list. This story eventually led to some other stories, some of which I've posted, some others I'm still working on. So my 'Patterns-verse' was born.

It was one too many times he'd seen Sam put his life on the line, watching him burn like the sun. He's bruised from head to toe, the black eye being particularly impressive, and that lip would end up scarring if Sam worried at it too much. He's thrumming impatiently, still running on adrenaline, eyes wide and his grin spread sharp. It's beautiful – no, _Sam_ is beautiful, has this way about him that Gene can't deny. He wants to strip him down and kiss each one of his hurts, take that pain away. Might just like that pain, though, given his boundless cheer and general barminess (at least tonight). Probably all sorts of kinky, his DI.

A dangerous line of thinking, that one, and it's something Gene knows he shouldn't be thinking about, Sam and his bedroom antics. Because he wants to know more. And more than that, he wants to be a proper part of them. If Sam's meant to be anyone’s, Sam's meant to be his.

It's a bad idea, of course it was. It's only ever been a very bad idea, even on the best of days.

'Just happy to be alive,' Sam mutters, once Gene comments as such – that Sam has a tendency to get himself into trouble, that is – and light catches in Sam's dark eyes, making them flash. That ever present smirk, and the currently split lip. He tugs on the sleeves of his jacket, fidgeting, restless. Shrugging, unable to keep still. 'You know how it is.'

He'd even fussed over Gene as one of the plonks had put a plaster on the gash on his forehead, thinking he might just need to go to hospital (just to be safe). Sam was one giant bruise and you didn't see him complaining, even when he was poked at and prodded, to make sure he didn't have cracked ribs on top of everything else – bloodying a handkerchief as he dabbed at his mouth, then pressing a clean edge of that same cloth to the corner of his eye – and wasn't that a small miracle, really, since he did so like to complain. If either of them needed hospital, it was Sam, but he was stubbornly insistent it wasn't needed at all. In fact, it was Sam's love of being a picky pain in the arse that had caused their captors to pay as much attention to him as they had.

A typical blag turned upside down, a jewellery store they shouldn't have been in at all, only Sam had been feeling sentimental and morose what with Mothers' Day being so close ('won't ever see her again, will I?' he'd muttered, giving Gene a worn, sad look. But Gene knew that feeling too well, after all) – and all because Sam Tyler couldn't keep his mouth shut. They hadn't known what to do with their hostages, especially when they'd found out they were coppers – well, other than beat the annoying one down. Tried knocking Gene out, though that didn't work, and he'd struggled and cursed against two of them, both of them big blokes, as Sam tried holding himself against three more.

All because of Sam, talking too much like he always did. Bloody typical, he was. Though he'd been doing a good enough job of it, really, right decent – he was scrappy enough when necessary, had a wiry strength to him, ducking and weaving, and was on better footing than even Gene had been. But then a punch had caught him in the kidney, and he'd grunted in pain as that knocked the breath from him, and it had gone rather pear-shaped after that. At least it had for Sam.

That begs the question, because Gene's not quite sure: how had they even come out on top? The details blur together – his worry at that one point, when Sam was a crumpled mess on the ground, wheezing just to catch his breath. He remembers his fist contacting with a hard jaw, they must not have done as good a job as they thought they had, in keeping him restrained.

'Pub?' It's a good night – no one had died that mattered, and Gene knows it would do the team good to see them stride into the Arms, side by side. A proper morale boost, Sam would say. Indestructible, they really were. Right invincible. And Sam's expression, right now, is earnest, hopeful, if still bruised and battered. Not at all addled by pain.

For maybe once in his adult life, Gene doesn't want to hide behind drink. If he's going to bollocks up this night, if it's the worse mistake he'll ever end up making – no, if if it turns out even half as well as he's hoping it might, he doesn't want to miss a single thing.

Anyhow, with Sam running on adrenaline, Gene knows he'll eventually crash. After all, he's seen it time and time before, and it's not as though Sam holds his alcohol well, even when he's been having a good day. Bruised and battered as he is? Not his best by far. So Gene raises an eyebrow at him, pulls up the collar of his coat, shrugs and then staggers towards the Cortina. Sam sighs loudly, following after him, the heels of his boots clicking sharply.

He's belting himself in, and Gene starts the engine, listens as it idles. 'You're never this quiet,' Sam says. 'It was a good night, Gene – we caught the bad guys and no one innocent was hurt. The good guys won.' Leather creaks as Sam shifts in his seat – it is his seat, after all. No one else rides second to Gene.

'Don't have much to say,' he says, moments later as he's shifting gears, and then they're driving away. 

Sam makes a thoughtful noise, a low hum. 'You don't even want to go to the pub. Go on then. Tell your Sam what's wrong.'

Gene snorts. 'Just thinking of how I don't appreciate watching some other blokes beat the living shit out of you, is all.'

'Right.' Then Sam laughs right back at him, just a short hard burst of sound. 'Cause that's your job.'

'Can't say I've a habit of hitting you for shits and giggles.' The corner of Gene's mouth twitches. 'Only when you deserve it.' He almost adds: _'When you're being a smart-arsed bastard and you forget how to listen to reason.'_ Maybe it's Gene's own brand of reason, but it only ever leads to that sort of physical confrontation when they're unable to see eye to eye. Maybe less and less these days, since when he slams Sam against something hard, he's more concerned he might end up kissing him rather than punching him instead. Not that it stops him – not when Sam's shouting at him and countering him at every point, when everything Sam is doing must be on purpose, just trying to rile Gene up –

'Of course,' Sam sighs, maybe at long length, and when Gene shifts his attention, he sees that Sam is chewing at his lip. 'But only then.'

Gene huffs as he laughs. 'At least you know your place. Gives me some sort of peace, that does.'

'Of course I know my place, Guv,' Sam says, and his response has gone a bit breathy. 'Doesn't mean it's not fun to rock the boat.' That startles Gene – he looks sideways, but Sam's looking out the window now, the long line of his neck. Gene wants to follow it with his gaze, touch it with his tongue, maybe bite at that collarbone just to see how Sam reacts. Sam is going to be the death of him, and he's too out of himself, oblivious, to even know what he does.

That, or maybe he does know, sees it like he sees everything else. Just trying to dig himself in, get under Gene's skin. Been there too long, by now, and he doesn't know that either, does he?

Growling, Gene shifts his attention back to the road. Stops himself from saying anything he doesn't need to say. Stops them both outside Sam's flat, turning off the engine. 'Oh,' Sam sighs, sounding disappointed. 'Come in for a drink.'

It's not a request, just a statement. If Sam had shifted the tone of his voice, it might have been an order, a proper demand. And when was Gene Hunt ever one to listen to orders? Especially ones from his poncy second-in-command. Well – maybe just this once. Not the sort of thing to make a habit of, not at all.

'Sure you don't want a nice trip to hospital?'

Sam makes a small, disagreeable sound, down in the back of his throat. 'Gene, I'm fine.' He's not fine at all, but it's something that Gene can appreciate, Sam not wanting to fuss. He hears Sam exit the car, and that simple action helps Gene to make up his mind.

He doesn't have words to speak, can't find them, his vocabulary just doesn't seem capable to support them, simple thought they might be – but he follows Sam out of the car, pulls his collar up once more against the sudden biting cold. More and more apparent, it is. And then Gene, who didn't even want to drink, is following Sam inside his shitty flat.

Sam flips on the overhead light, slowly shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it on the hook behind the door, and Gene is assaulted as he always is by the god-awful wallpaper and the general dismal state of the place. He's seen it at its worst, just like he's seen Sam, but even at its best it's not much at all. 'You really need to get yourself a better flat, Gladys,' he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. 'This place is depressing.'

Sam's gone to the kitchenette, has gotten out two glasses and had been in the process of digging out the drink, but now he's looking back at Gene – crouching down, brows drawn together, eyes wide and dark and perfectly compelling. Then he's grinning, like he's remembered something clever, and he bites at his lower lip, almost worrying the split. 'Why, Guv? You making an offer?'

What's he supposed to say? _'I want to drag you to your feet and kiss you, and whatever that starts, I don't think I'll be able to stop.'_ Or maybe: _'That I could wake up next to you each morning for the rest of my life, and not even that would be enough.'_ Bit classier than saying he wants to bend Sam over and shag his brains out, even though that's true as well. And sex is sex and easy enough to deal with, but Gene knows it goes much deeper than that. He's terrified of what that means. He's not a romantic, not given to sentiments. But maybe more than anything, he wants to hold onto Sam, keep him safe from world. Sodding hell, maybe just keep him safe from himself.

Gene shrugs, digs his hands into his pockets. 'Hurry up. You're looking like you're right about to wilt.'

Sam tilts his head sideways, showing off his neck once more – and now that he's closer, now that he isn't behind the wheel, Gene is doubly tempted to reach out and make it his own. 'You’re right about that, it really is catching up with me, Guv.' He sighs, and then he's rubbing at his forehead. 'Could do with a good soak.' Then he goes and busies himself with dragging the bottle of scotch out, makes a show of pouring their glasses. Hands one over to Gene, and the edges of his grin are softened by exhaustion, and maybe if he's finally coming down off his high, pain too.

But Sam holds out his glass, clinks it against Gene's. 'Cheers,' he mutters, and then knocks it back in one go. Gene raises an eyebrow at him, and he sips at his instead, letting the burn go down through him, nice and slow. Sam's pouring himself a second, and his hand shakes as he does.

Well, that settles that. Gene puts his glass down, and then shrugs out of his coat, folding it neatly over the arm of Sam's good chair. Sam's sipping at his drink now, watching him with wary, tired eyes, and Gene unbuttons his sleeves and then rolls them up. Already tugged off his gloves and jammed them into his pockets. 'What?'

Gene can do this – mind his barmy DI, like he needs the looking after. And of course he does. Been doing that, one way or another, since he first staggered into Gene's kingdom, half-cracked and concussed. 'You drink. I'll run you that water. You look like a piece of abstract bloody art, nice soak'll do you a world of good.'

Sam nods, leaning back against the counter, slowly nursing his drink. Somewhere between poor lost soul and dead on his feet, a damned persuasive combination when it's Sam who's wearing that look. First things first (once the bathwater is running hot, the pipes groaning in protest) – Gene stalks back out of the bathroom, paracetamol in hand, as well as a glass of lukewarm tap water. Sam's mouth twitches at the corner – just like Gene knew it would – but he puts down his scotch and swallows down his medicine instead. 'Don't know what I'd do without you, Guv,' he mutters, blinking slowly as he tilts his head back. Eyes on Gene's, waiting. How bloody expectant he is, and how could he even –

Oh.

What was that, before? A bad idea, that's what this is.

But it doesn't stop him, one more step, and then he's so inside Sam's personal space, he's surprised he's not opened his mouth to complain. 'Sam,' he whispers, and it means so much more than than any one small word ever should, because Gene thinks it's a promise and a revelation and the hope of so much more.

He puts his hand on Sam's shoulder, clenches his fingers into the collar of Sam's shirt. Tilts his head and slots his mouth against Sam's, only to lightly kiss his split lip. Sam blinks, gives a startled little breath, and closes his eyes as Gene's mouth settles against him once more. Kissing his cheek, that fat purple bruise. The corner of his eye, where it's bruised to almost black. Only half aware of Sam's hands settling around him, grabbing hold of his shirt. This is a bad idea, and Sam shouldn't be wanting it even half as much as Gene.

Only then Gene's mouth is on Sam's once more, because one of Sam's hands has moved, pressed at the back of Gene's neck, fingers in his hair, having tugged Gene's mouth back down. It's not a dry press of lips, this time – Sam's opened his mouth to him, whisky and need, licks and the small pleased sounds he makes vibrate against Gene's mouth, dragging Gene in. He's drowning in that sensation, and that kiss just as hot as Gene had ever thought it would be. Somehow, though, he knows he never heeded it that much.

It's Gene who groans, then, and he pulls back (surprisingly enough, he could actually stop) – Sam's hand slipping from his neck, to his shoulder, and he blinks owlishly at him, licking at his bottom lip. 'Gene – '

Gene pulls away from him, lets Sam lean back against the counter, goes to turn the water off. Pours in a liberal amount of Epsom salts. Stays on his knees beside the bathtub, almost buries his face in his hands. Laughs instead, and then he's pulling himself to his feet. Outside, Sam's finished his drink, and his tired fingers are dragging over the buttons of his shirt. He's managed to get one undone, and is working on the next.

Then Sam's looking at him – the somehow blinding intensity of his too-dark eyes – and Gene wets his lower lip, his fingers itching to touch. 'Help me, please,' Sam says – and that's it, that's really all it is, because then Gene's pressing into Sam's space one more, working on Sam's buttons. He could make some sort of comment at Sam, he really could – not even able to do the simplest of things, needs his Guv for that, doesn't he – but he's too aware of the nearness of Sam's body, its heat, and how that makes him forget how to speak. Sam's head leans back – his eyes half-lidded, and his breathing is slow – and Gene bends his mouth to Sam's neck, just as he'd wanted to before, licks along the line of his throat, feels Sam shudder against him, moan.

Buttons. That's what he's doing, tangling his fingers with Sam's and getting his shirt off, pressing the flat of his tongue against Sam's neck, tasting leather and soap and sweat. Shirt first, and vest beneath that. Somehow, without seeing, only ever feeling, there's skin beneath his fingers now, and Sam sucks in his breath and Gene looks up, blinking slowly. He'd been happy to explore the nooks and crannies of Sam's neck, marring that otherwise untouched stretch of skin. Sam likes it, too, if the noises he makes are any sort of indication.

Now he gets a good look at Sam once more, and he grunts as he exhales. Sam winces, biting at his lip, Gene pressing his fingers (lightly enough) to one awful looking bruise. 'You're a bloody punching bag, you are,' and Sam laughs, which lightens the heavy mood, reminds Gene he can back up now, that he should move. Almost angry at himself, at Sam as well, for this having happened at all. Not too upset, though, otherwise he'd listen to that voice inside that's telling him it's time enough to leave.

'Don't, Gene,' Sam says, rubbing his arms, wincing once more as he does. 'I'm fine.'

'Sod it all, Tyler, you're not fine at all.'

Sam's eyes darken – his mouth does that twitch again, at the corner, and then he's smiling. 'Thank you,' he says, somewhat nonsensically. Gene huffs, decides against not drinking at all, crosses over to where the bottle is sitting and taking a long swig.

'Water's getting cold,' he says, not looking back at Sam, hand shaking as he keeps hold of the bottle.

'You're staying.' Another comment, another demand.

Gene laughs, rubs his eyes and then grabs at the bottle once more, takes another long drink. 'Course I am, Tyler. You're too stubborn to go to hospital, don't need you drowning yourself if you end up passing out.'

He was pretty damn stubborn as well, thinking of his forehead. He hears but doesn't see Sam wriggle out of his trousers and pants, and once Gene looks back, that's all Sam is, clothing left behind on the floor, as well as his boots. He hears his heavy exhale and the slosh of water as Sam slides in, and Gene sighs and throws his head back, settling the bottle down with a heavy thunk. Rocks the bottle back, circling it on its edge before he sets it back down.

What's he meant to do? He rubs at his arms, imagines the bruises standing out darkly on Sam's pale skin, and he sighs in frustration as he staggers into the bathroom (takes the bottle with him), throwing down the lid on the toilet and then sitting down heavily in its wake. Sam blinks, staring at him – then he splashes water on his face, closing his eyes and sighing as he does. The water glistens on his skin, and Gene tears his gaze away. There's a world of words they're not saying. Another small miracle, that.

'Water's still good and hot,' Sam mutters, and said hot water sloshes about. 'Not moving any time soon.' He doesn't sound so terribly tired now, just more like himself. It's not going as he thought it might have – not a mistake, but nothing gloriously right, either. Only he knows he's tasted Sam's skin, has lost himself in Sam's mouth. And neither of them are acting like anything has changed. Oh, but Gene's not stupid, he really isn't. Maybe Sam might try and fool himself, but Gene knows that there's no going back from that, that everything really has changed.

A drink, and he passes the bottle to Sam. Offers it, that is. Sam blinks, then gives a small grin as he takes it, though he hesitates before he takes a small drink. He does sigh contentedly once he's finished, and he rests the bottle on the rim of the bathtub, still gripping the neck. Almost finished it off, and most of it has gone down Gene's gullet. Hadn't wanted that, leaning on drink, had wanted to remember it. Somehow though, no matter how much it might end up blurring, it's not that be thinks he'll ever be able to forget anything about this night. Not even if he'd wanted to, but he knows it's not that.

He takes the bottle from Sam's slack fingers, and Sam studies him as he takes a drink, then puts the bottle down on the floor. Well out of the way. Moves his hand, and then Gene's folding himself down to sit on the edge of the bathtub, feels water soaking in through his trousers. Doesn't mind, though, maybe because he can't think straight – wait, no, can't think at all. He bends himself to take as much wet Sam as he can into his arms, and Sam bends against him, groaning and wincing but pushing his mouth up to meet Gene's. Maybe he moans, but maybe that was Gene instead, getting himself thoroughly wet in the process, Sam's arms wound so tightly about him, gripping at his shirt. Even as his own hands slide over Sam's wet skin.

Almost mortifying, that Sam would make him moan, though when Sam does this sluggish thing with his tongue, Gene whimpers instead. Far more humiliating, that. Of course. No talking, not now, hopefully not ever, not when Gene feels like he's doing the most right thing in the world, no matter how wrong it might actually be. It really is wrong. But Gene's only human, can only deny himself so long. Can only so long resist a thing that he's wanted all along.

Still, he pulls back – and he's shaking, but so is Sam, and the grin that splits his face makes Gene ache. It's a good sort of pain, though, maybe one he can't live without. Maybe one he's already addicted to, all his other vices aside.

'Got you all wet,' Sam says, sucks on the inside of his cheek. 'Sorry 'bout that.'

'Had worse,' Gene mutters gruffly. Really, he has.

'Hungry,' Sam mutters, looks thoughtful.

Gene rolls his eyes. 'Don't think I'm you're cook now, Gladys.'

'Wouldn't imagine it, Guv,' Sam grins back at him. 'Certain even you could do beans on toast. Not feeling too picky right now – I mean, if you were feeling charitable.'

Gene snorts on a laugh, leaning back, rubbing his forehead. 'Really, not feeling picky? Didn't think that was possible.'

'Ah well, maybe I just like to keep you guessing.'

He doesn't do cooking, not really – when his wife left him, he'd subsisted on whisky and pink wafers and the left overs that had been packed into the fridge. It took Sam one week to notice anything was wrong – well, one week to come over with groceries, like maybe he'd known all along, and Gene, being too stubborn to ever ask for help, had wondered why it had taken as long as it had. Then Sam had shown up, just like he was meant to all along, and Gene needed him to be there so he didn't turn him away. Helped that Sam didn't feel like they needed to talk about Gene's feelings, but then Sam gets him, understands him in ways Gene knows his wife never did, nor anyone else at CID. Made him a proper dinner that night, and apparently that one night turned into a habit. Since that first night, this was the first time Sam hadn't ended up at his house, cooking up a meal.

Maybe that's why this is so easy. One more thing that was meant to happen all along, and now it's in the process of happening, of slotting itself into place.

So Gene sighs. 'Suppose it's the least I could do.' He's done more than just that, really, and he doesn't need Sam pointing it out. 'Go on. Enjoy your bath. Would tell you to really stretch out your bloody skinny legs, but you haven't the room.' Then, because it's the most natural thing to do, he presses a kiss to Sam's cheek, even though it shifts and ends up sliding back along his jaw. Gene nuzzles his mouth against Sam's ear, and Sam's breath catches – he exhales slowly, and it's plaintive and pleased and needy. Greedy, though, Sam's mouth on his.

Has to snatch himself back, because he'll never get anything done, not now, not ever again, if he keeps on kissing Sam, exploring him, tasting him, memorising him with tongue and lip. Doesn't help that Sam's looking pleased beyond any sense of the word, like he knows just what he's doing to Gene, and it's his own compulsion, his own addiction, to push and pull and make Gene come undone.

Gene pushes himself up, wiping his wet hands off on his trousers, and Sam makes the water slosh about as he settles back, closing his eyes as he leans his cheek against the wall. 'No drowning on me now,' Gene snaps, and Sam opens his eyes for one brief moment – nods, almost grinning.

'Just doing what you told me to, Gene. Enjoying my bath.'

'Right. You're a right smarmy-arsed bastard, Tyler.' But even that doesn't seem to lessen Sam's grin.

Sighing, Gene rubs his face with both hands, snatches up the bottle of scotch, and exists the bathroom, feeling Sam's gaze on him as he all but runs away. Doesn't get too far, of course, finding himself in Sam's awful but otherwise tidy kitchenette. He's not doing this, not really – searching for the bread, going through the cupboard, being domestic in Sam's shitty flat of all places. Puts on water for tea while he's at it, just because he feels like he could do with a cuppa, even if Sam doesn't. Though he plans on doctoring it with what's left of the whisky. Eh, maybe he can spare just a bit of it for Sam. Actually, he'll do just that.

After that, he sighs and stirs the beans, and wonders how he got here, really. Feels like he's been blitzed over by Sam, who strode into his world like he was its king, even if he seemed lost and mad and somehow always asking for pain. Alive – because it's what made Sam feel alive. That voice speaks up once more, because Gene could leave now, he really could. Only, maybe because he's stubborn as well, there's going to be none of that.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, long after the water's boiling and he has to move it off to the side, maybe when the pot is simmering and Gene's wondering how he's found himself caught up in all this.

'Not feeding you in the bath, Tyler,' he calls out, flexing his wrists as he stretches. 'You must be a right prune by now,' he says, as he plates up their food. Gene's not cooking for Sam and not having something to eat as well.

'Water's still a bit warm,' Sam sighs back at him, and Gene pinches the bridge of his nose, fights the urge to laugh.

'Toast'd get soggy,' he mutters, and he supposes that does it, because he hears the water splashing as Sam stands. He looks sideways, some moments later, and Sam's grinning at him, hair dark and damp. Strides out, perhaps a bit stiffly, though no worse for the wear, with a towel wrapped around his waist, Gene's gaze skimming over what he can make of Sam's skin, pale pleasant stretches of flesh and unhappy blotching as well. One more small miracle, because no matter how much kissing had been going on, if Sam had thought to tease him then Gene might have done something at least one of them would end up regretting. Full stop.

Next he knows it (and that's at least several minutes later, though he can't be sure, more than enough time for Sam to have gotten dressed, if that had been his intention), he feels Sam brushing against his back, and Gene swallows, holding his breath, forgetting how to breathe. Then Sam's arms are pressing around him, holding on tight, and Sam must have just leaned his cheek against Gene's shoulder. He feels the heat of Sam's body, Sam's breath, everything that Sam is and ever will be. The hold quickens, and Sam presses a kiss against Gene's shoulder, even as Gene finally remembers to let out that breath he'd been holding, exhaling slowly.

'Sam – '

And then Sam's unwinding himself and pulling away, and he sounds so small and plaintive, it hurts. 'Sorry. This, I mean, whatever this is, I don't want it to be a one-off thing.' He looks it, too, standing there in his dark pyjamas, unbuttoned top and all, clean vest underneath.

For a moment, all Gene wants to do is strip him back down. After all, there's still a good amount of Sam's skin he's not allowed himself to explore. Eyes, maybe, but not with the parts of him that matter even more.

Gene turns round, nods, grunting as he does so, and he thrusts a plate into Sam's hand, cutlery as well. He normally has a better way with words, but he's not one to speak on his emotions, not now and not ever, internalizing it all instead. Sam searches his face, clinging to the plate – and Gene softens his expression, touches Sam's cheek, pressing his thumb along the curve of Sam's lower lip. 'Made tea as well,' he says, and it's not what he means, just the way he says it, and Sam nods back at him, looking hopeful.

'Ta, Guv.'

Another grunt, and he passes the mug over, watching Sam hesitate before him. Then he turns, drops his plate and mug down, stiff again as he sits down, wincing and closing his eyes and resting. Doesn't open his mouth to complain, picks up his tea and sips at it, eyes widening at the scotch that's mixed in. Grins a little, though, putting it back down. He then sets to eating with a certain voraciousness. Not fine dining, not at all. Hardly the first meal they'd shared that resembled some sort of date.

You date birds. Sam, you snark at over a shared meal and hope he doesn't end up talking to the radios, making himself look more than just mad – knowing you'll end up fighting with him over one thing or another, maybe just because he never knows when to stop pushing buttons. Anyhow, he hasn't done that sort of thing in... well, months. In that time – with Sam's penchant for going on about how he was staying now, how this is what he wanted and this was what he'd come back for, he'd even given it a go with Cartwright. If it had worked then Gene would have dug inside himself and found some happiness for them, he's sure of it. But that's not needed now, is it, since it's Gene Sam's with now, Gene he's kissed, which makes it a much better turn of events. Bloody near perfect, it is.

'You going to eat?'

'Right.' Gene snatches up his plate, his cup, walks over and sits across from Sam. Maybe his vision's messing with his head, but the bruising doesn't look half as bad as he knows it really is. And if Sam's not complaining about it, Gene shouldn't fuss at him, either, though he rather wishes he would. Just so Gene could call him a fairy and a nonce and tell him to just take it like a man. Only Sam's been doing a good job of that on his own. Doesn't want Gene thinking him fragile, easily broken. Probably too belligerent to ever properly break.

As Gene begins eating, Sam's cleaning off his plate, and he casts furtive looks Gene's way, openly thoughtful. Chewing on his lip, then he's sipping at his tea. Doesn't look nearly as tired as Gene's sure he must feel.

'What?' he snaps, at some point, and Sam shrugs, grinning.

'Nothing. Just looking.' Then he pauses, drums his fingers on the table. 'You'll stay the night.'

Another comment, one more simple statement of fact, and Gene can't think of it as anything less than what it is. A request, no, some sort of invitation. And Gene will accept it, because he knows there's no way he he can say no. So he shrugs, nods his head, scrapes his fork across the plate. The back of his neck feels hot, the palm of his right hand itches and he rubs at it with his thumb. Doesn't even know how he's meant to make words, yet somehow he does. 'Sure that bed of yours can handle the both of us, Tyler?'

The slightest smirk, and Sam tilts his head to one side. 'Worth trying out.' Like a kid on Christmas morning, he's all but humming in excitement now, rocking back in his chair and folding his hands in front of him. 'If it breaks down we can always move to the floor.'

'No sense in that,' Gene says, pushing his plate away, reaching for his tea, draining it in one go. 'Don't think my back could handle that sort of torture, ta very much.'

Sam wiggles an eyebrow at him, stacking their plates and piling the empty mugs on top of that, teetering slightly as he stands – moving too quickly. A cringe, but he turns that into a smile, and he dumps their dishes in the sink, and Gene watches him as he tidies the mess that Gene had left behind. Gene snorts, shaking his head.

'Really?'

Sam huffs, 'really,' and then he smooths down the front of his vest, looking small and shadowed, as though his body had just reminded him just how tired it was, just how bad it really felt. Gene stands, and Sam's gaze is on him, following his every move, as he toes out of his shoes, as he reaches to loosen his tie. 'Need anything else for the pain?'

'In a few hours,' Sam mumbles, rubbing at his cheek, wincing when he rubs too hard. 'Really though, don't worry. I'm fine.'

'Course you are,' Gene says, rolling his eyes and then moving towards Sam, setting his hands on his shoulders. Sam opens his mouth to say something, but that something never comes, and he ends up smiling up at him instead.

'This is pretty surreal,' he mutters, and Gene breathes out sharply – he'd meant that to be a laugh.

'Yes, well, I am pretty impressive. Give us a kiss then, Gladys.'

'Don't even know what to do with you, Guv.'

Gene rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, grin tugging at his lips. 'Clever thing like you, sure you can figure that out.'

'Hmm.' Then Sam's humming against his mouth, and Gene has to wrap his arms around Sam to keep them both grounded, worried they might just up and float away. Turns him away from the sink, backs him towards the poor excuse he has for a bed. Feels Sam stop, bumping back against it, and he gives another pleased hum, sinking deeper into that kiss. It started off slow, but it's growing, a messy sort of thing, more tooth and tongue than anything else. Gene feels Sam pulling on his loosened tie, and he breaks off, blinking down at him – his short fingers wrapped in maroon and cream – and Sam gives another tug, pulling it free. Keeps hold of it though, resting his hands at Gene's neck, spreading his fingers and then pulling him back down. Pushing himself back up.

The kiss hardly lasts as long as is should. Sam gives another owlish blink at him, looking up from where he's ended up, sitting on the edge of what goes as his bed. He dropped the tie at some point, and now he reaches up to grab at Gene's shirt. Gene feels his knees hit the edge of the bed, knows that Sam just wriggled back, gives a harsh breath as Gene balances himself. Busies himself with exploring Sam's mouth, kissing his jaw and his cheek and the corner of his eye, peeling his pyjama top off, dropping it and letting it flutter to the ground. Gene forgets himself, sucks too hard on Sam's lower lip, hears Sam's whimper, tastes the copper tang of blood.

'Shit,' he says, just as Sam whispers, 'sorry,' and then Gene rolls his eyes and tugs on Sam's vest, 'daft bugger.'

Too cheery by far, winding his arms round Gene, Sam presses a kiss to his lips, lightly. Presses his hands at Gene's shoulders, runs them down his arms, presses against his chest, fingers moving to work on his buttons. Overexerts himself, or something of the like, because that next groan doesn't sound pleased at all.

'Can't do anything right, can you?'

'Seemed simple enough,' Sam looks rueful, shadowed gaze. 'Thought I could figure it out.'

'Hm. Well then, let the Gene Genie at it. That's a good boy.'

Sam's vest is rumpled, pushed up, showing off a smooth stretch of pale skin, and Gene stands back up only to move back down, taking care as he goes down on his knees, settled between Sam's spread legs. 'Gene, I,' Sam starts, but he doesn't finish, and Gene flicks his gaze upwards, breath catching at the look on Sam's face. Open and expectant and grateful, and it drives itself in Gene's heart, knotting itself into something so tangled you couldn't just pull it apart – you'd need to cut it out just to remove it. Takes his breath away, hurts and humbles him, and even if that voice was shouting at him to leave, there's no way he'd be able to comply.

'Just don't go getting used to this sort of thing,' he snaps, and Sam gives him a small wary look, nods his head. His 'course not' is muttered, and his eyes are deep and dark, and maybe Gene was talking to himself as well as Sam. Don't go getting used to this, but it's hardly a proper start – still, it hints at so much more to come.

Sam leans back, supporting himself on those long skinny arms of his, and Gene studies him, swipes his thumb over skin, makes Sam's vest ride up. Another bad idea, this. Doesn't stop him from pushing Sam's vest up even more, bending to kiss his stomach, listening to the hitch of Sam's breath as Gene drags his mouth over smooth skin. 'Oh please don't stop,' Sam groans, words coming out in a tumble, and Gene grins against him, pressing with his tongue and feeling how Sam tenses, shuddering beneath him. He leans back further, and then Gene's sliding his hand, catching his fingers in elastic band and giving a tug. Sam shifts upwards, and Gene's pulling the pyjama bottoms off, pausing as Sam winces before tugging them down. Then Sam moans – and it isn't that he hasn't before, but this puts fire in Gene's blood.

'Right pretty sight you make,' he says, breathing heavily, and kisses Sam's thigh. He huffs out a small breath, might have tried to laugh, trying not to knee Gene in the face as he makes to wriggle and squirm, pulling at his vest. Drag himself backwards, spreading his legs somewhat wider as he does, hurt flashing over his face. Presses his lips together, looks too determined, and Gene steadies himself, looking at Sam's face, ignoring everything else.

Only then, he's only human, and he licks his lips, moving. 'You're too skinny,' he mutters, and he kisses his way from one bruise to another: stomach, lingering at a sharp hip, breathing out as he grazes a nipple with tooth and tongue, and even that makes Sam squirm. A wriggle, then a gasp and a groan, and Gene has to press down at one hip, just to keep Sam grounded. Hears him wince, how he sucks his breath in, and then how he gasps out plaintively. Never thought to find himself here, not on his knees in front of his DI, this special sort of madness. 'Here,' and he shifts Sam's right leg up over his shoulder, turning his face to kiss the soft skin. Sam whimpers so needfully at that, long and low, plaintive and demanding, that Gene almost falls apart. His cock gives a needy twitch, he hears the blood rushing in his ears, but he's never been so determined to take his bloody time.

He presses his fingers into Sam's thigh, wraps his free hand at the base of Sam's cock, and he sucks in his breath as he inhales, hisses on the exhale. 'Oh hell, Gene,' and Gene runs his thumb upwards, not looking at but listening to Sam as he reacts – the rapid in and out of his breath, the low whine caught at the back of his throat. Doesn't need to look at him to know that he's dishevelled, licks him, sweeping his tongue along Sam's length before taking Sam into his mouth. Sam makes such a sound at that, a stuttering noise that defies all definition, but it sets the hairs to stand at the back of Gene's neck, makes him too bloody hard, fire and want and need.

Hasn't done this sort of thing in a long enough while, but maybe it's like riding a bicycle – not something you ever really forget. Then, as his mouth stretches and moves, he licks and bobs and hears Sam begging for more faster please, feels Sam's hands tangling in his hair, and he's proud of that response, he really is. Still, after that Sam doesn't last long at all, breathy needy gasps and then he's coming in Gene's mouth, hot and pulsing. 'Sorry,' Sam gasps, whimpering, sounding so very out of himself, run ragged with lust, 'sorry, sorry, Gene, oh hell, _Gene_.'

He shifts himself – the floor's not comfortable at all, and Sam's hot and breathing heavily now, his hands gone from Gene's hair. His leg slips back down onto the floor, and Gene's gripping at the edge of the bed, pulling himself up. Right, he's just as dishevelled as Gene had thought he'd be, leaning back on his bed, his eyes too dark and his mouth open wide, pink tongue flicking out to lick his lower lip. He's on proper display, legs still spread, softening cock, high colour on his cheeks.

He swallows, and Gene follows the bob of his Adam's apple, and then Sam is reaching for him and his mouth is on Gene's, and the kiss that follows is a hungry, thorough thing. Sam humming with delight as he sucks his own taste from Gene's mouth, demanding and thorough. Fast and hard, and Gene somehow reminds himself to grab at Sam and hold him tight, even as he feels Sam's body shivering beneath his.

Then, because a good thing never seems to last as long as it ought, Sam draws back and it's Gene who blinks at him, dazed and truly wanting. 'Sam.'

'Gene.' Sam moves slow, sitting up, sucking on his lower lip as he reaches for Gene's belt, tugging at it. 'Sam,' and he knows what he wants but hell if he knows how to say it, not when Sam looks up at him like _that_ , the flutter of his lashes, the slow release of his ragged breath. Turns into a faint chuckle at the end.

Sam's still looking up at him, too pleased with himself – he'd gotten Gene's belt undone, hand pausing at the zip. 'I'd like you to fuck me,' he says, and Gene coughs. Might have nearly choked. 'You know me,' and he's licking his lips once more, eyes flickering in their mirth, 'not one to mince my words.'

There's something Gene should stay – Sam's in enough of a state as is, Gene doesn't need to add to his pain. But the way he's looking at Gene right now, pink cheeked and dark-eyed, lips trembling in want, it's the most appealing thing Gene's ever seen. And that means Sam is going to get exactly what he wants. He needs to say something. His mouth is even opened to say it. But whatever that it might be, it doesn't ever come.

'Spit's good, if you use enough,' Sam all but pants – just how much experience does Sam have? Thought he was kinky enough at one point, and maybe he'll be able to find out just how much for himself. 'But there's Vaseline in the bathroom.' He pauses, and Gene blinks as he stares Sam down, though then he just grins, all bright and cheer. 'It's good for dry skin. And other things. Come on.'

'You're as needy as a tart,' Gene laughs, not that he minds, maybe if all that Sam ends up needing is him. He pulls himself away from Sam's hands, or tries to, because Sam's grabbing at him and pulling himself to his feet, pressing all of his nakedness against Gene. That demanding mouth is on Gene's once more, and Gene groans into it, as Sam's hands keep moving along him. Buttons here, cloth there, helping him undress because maybe he doesn't have the sense to do it on his own. Sam's gotten his chest bare by the time Gene's able to pull himself away, growling out something nonsensical. Might have been a threat.

But he needs to know, really needs to know, between fetching what he needs from the bathroom and then fitting himself back into the place he'd left behind, even as Sam helps to strip him down, because he's just about to push Sam down. So he pulls away, at that point, from hands and mouth and everything else, stares at Sam, his wide-eyes and his parted lips, the flush that still stains his pretty cheeks. 'Is this what you really want?'

Sam nods, swallows, and Gene watches the bob of his throat. 'Yes. Yes, Guv, please. I'd have been sitting awkwardly tomorrow anyhow.' At this, he tilts his head slightly, giving a small sharp grin. And that's just what Gene wanted to hear, so he bends his head forward, licks the sweat off Sam's skin. Sam shudders. Perfectly shameful, but when Gene looks at him next, his gaze is wide, unashamed. 'How do you want me?' Oh bloody hell, he has to choose?

'Surprise me,' he whispers gruffly, and that brightens Sam's eyes. He turns and goes down on his knees, somewhat stiffly but with his own apparent grace, effortless and enchanting and Gene is so far gone, he never stood a chance. He watches Sam stretching himself out across the rickety bed, hands above his head and clutching at his wrists. That reminds Gene just how much he wants this, wants Sam, how hard he is and how he's aching to drive Sam out of his mind.

So he drops down on one knee behind Sam, uncaps the jelly but sets it to the side. He runs one finger down the curve of Sam's spine, down that long arching back of his that's such a pretty stretch of pale flesh. It had mostly escaped his earlier beating, it's bruises few and far between. Still, Gene leans forwards, kisses each one of them, and when he does that, Sam arches and hisses and pleads nonsense with him, which makes Gene smile against Sam's skin. 'You 'ave no idea 'ow beautiful you are, do you, you tart?' and Sam wiggles his arse against him, which makes Gene bark out a laugh. Runs his finger back up and Sam shivers, catching his breath. He hooks one finger and presses it into the jelly, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. He drags his thumb down the curve of Sam's arse, pays attention as Sam tries to hold himself steady, hears Sam panting as he presses into him. Trembles as Gene takes his time, sinking his finger into Sam's heat. Hears a whimper, and then a string of curses, and then Sam's begging him and that, right there, that might just be the best thing in the world.

'Sweet talk'll get you everything, Sam,' and he pumps his finger with such force Sam rocks forward and then back against it, hesitating slightly as Gene adds a second finger, stretching him slowly – and whatever Gene just did (or Sam ended up doing to himself), did he just bloody purr? He pulls his finger away and Sam makes another pleading noise, twitching. He's done an impressive job of restraining himself, and he scoops more jelly and strokes himself and the noise that Sam makes when he starts pressing himself inside that inviting tight heat is better than anything else that had come before.

So good that he slaps his hands down on Sam's hips and pulls him back, even as he pushes forward, and Sam hisses, somewhere between pleasure and pain, and every part of him is shivering. 'That good?' he asks.

'Oh bloody hell, yes, Gene,' and Gene's gaze travels up him, the curve of his spine and the width of his shoulders, the dark head of hair and the hands that grip at his wrists, straining now, gone taut.

'Good,' and that's enough, that's all he needs, and he can let himself go. Pulls out and rocks back into Sam, maybe with the same force he might have thrown a punch, or slammed him into a wall. Sam's next sound is a loud keening, which turns to muffled whimpering. He spares one glance, sees that Sam's tucked his arm against his face, would rather hear him go hoarse. Slams into him once more, and the only bruises on his hips are the ones that Gene's leaving there himself.

He slides one hand beneath Sam, feels him hard again, wraps his fingers round his cock and tugs on him. Works his hand on Sam, trying to match his own thrusts, but the beat of it is too erratic. 'Come for me, Sammy,' he manages, voice gone hoarse, rather ragged itself. He feels Sam jerk beneath him, pushing back against his thrusts, and Sam gives no proper warning, just a muffled whimper that's louder somehow than the others. Then he's coming, spilling hot on Gene's hand, pulling his head back and giving a hoarse cry. Finally just listening, and if he could just do that more often, that would be brilliant, it would.

Gene can't go on forever, and Sam's tight and hot and Gene doubts he'll last, not when Sam gives moan after muffled moan. Don't you know what you do to me, Sam, and he might have said that, groans and growls, but he's not sure, couldn't be arsed. It knots up in him and then he's coming, and that's hot and hard too, slowing himself as he presses harder at Sam's hips. Hears him make small sated noises, all hunger gone from him. Somehow, Gene pulls away, settles back. Blinks slowly, feels perfectly dazed. Ends up smacking Sam lightly enough on the arse, just to get him to move.

Sam ends up sitting back against him, and he's groggy as he twists round slowly, plus there's a mess that needs to be cleaned. Sam wraps himself around Gene, tucks his face into the crook of Gene's neck, licks and sucks and kisses, and then he stops, nuzzles instead. Breathes out and then back in, evenly, slow.

'You're a soppy git,' Gene mutters, and Sam gives a small, tired sounding laugh.

'Yeah, I really am. Just coming to terms with all that's happened.'

'I'm still impressive?'

'Every damn inch of you is a triumph and a marvel, Guv.'

'Right, well, course it is. Anyhow, think faster. We're sitting in a right mess here, Sam.' Gene, though, makes no attempt to move.

'Hmm,' Sam murmurs, and that low hum is such a thoughtful sound. Stretches slowly, and Gene suddenly doesn't mind the mess at all. Not when Sam reaches out, fingers brushing over his cheek. Edging round the plaster on his forehead, that one injury he'd forgotten about completely. In the low light, Sam's muted shadows that almost run together, a soppy and sentimental sort of messiness that Gene's going to be dealing with as long as he draws breath. Gene reaches up, brushes his thumb at the corner of Sam's eye, light against the bruising, before he pulls away. Slides it over the curve of his cheek. Before Gene knows it's even happening, Sam's face is properly cradled against his hand. Can't say he minds that at all. Maybe he's a soppy git as well, though you'd never get him to say that. Would punch someone for even suggesting it might be true.

Sam's eyes are dark and compelling, half-lidded, lazy. Too damned pleased with himself, really. Gene gives a slight tug, pulls Sam's mouth to his. Kisses him for longer than he probably should, but maybe it just won't ever be enough.

'Go on,' and with his other hand, smacks Sam's arse once more, hand lingering on sweat-damp skin. 'Get up then, Gladys. Fetch us a cloth.'

Sam gives a breathy snort of a laugh, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. 'Can't say I really feel like getting up right now, Gene. Might just end up stuck like this forever.'

'Wouldn't want to be the ones to find us,' and that makes Sam laugh even more, which isn't a bad thing at all. 'Right then, if you're going to be that sort of stubborn, then I'll be taking matters into me own hands.' He swats Sam's side once more, and Sam huffs a little as he exhales. 'Get off of us then and we'll go fetch it ourself.'

Sam rolls his eyes, but he looks amused, and he pulls himself up slowly, steadying himself against the bed before he makes his legs work, but then he only ends up sitting back down, and he does so with a groan inducing wince. Gene huffs and pulls himself up when he can, and it doesn't seem like time has passed at all between him standing and heading to the bathroom, and him returning with a wet cloth in hand. Done a job of tidying himself already, so he tosses it at Sam, who is aware enough to catch it, even as he blinks slowly and gives an over-large yawn. Funny how he looks like he'd been otherwise occupied – but doing what? Maybe just being lost in his own sodding thoughts. Sam chucks the cloth and then he's blinking up at Gene, smiling still as exhaustion does a full on creep. He closes his eyes and wobbles.

Bed is happening, and soon. Gene flips off the light that was on, but the light that cuts in from the window might be pale and cold, though it does a good enough job of brightening the room. Gene says, 'You look dead on your feet,' and Sam nods, standing when Gene prompts him to. 'Still think you want to give that bed of yours a proper try? Don't even think you can rightly call it a bed.'

Sam chuckles, nods. 'We can make this work.' He frowns, cringing. Gene rubs his shoulder. Somehow, though, they make themselves fit on Sam's bothersome small bed, though Gene's as much a mattress as anything else. But that's alright, because Sam is warm against him. Not long after that, when they're still not talking, Sam presses a kiss to his cheek. Smirks as he draws back. 'Good night, Guv. Sweet dreams.'

Which has Gene rolling his eyes, and half a dozen insults settle on his tongue but Gene leaves them off for some other later day. Instead he lowers his hand and grabs a handful of Sam's arse, giving it a firm squeeze. 'Only plan on having the best.' Sam shifts against him, mostly on top of him, and he laughs when he settles his cheek against Gene's shoulder, and Gene listens to his breathing slow. Begin to even out.

'Going to sleep now,' Sam murmurs, his eyes closing. Gene's hand strays to his hip, tracing absently against Sam's skin. So Sam's planning on just going to sleep. Gene had imagined at some point he'd want to talk his ear off, but apparently that wasn't one of Sam's plans. If he even had any sort of plan. For all Gene knew what he wanted, he hadn't had much of an idea how to get his hands on it. And now he reckons he's right stuck with it, which doesn't seem to be such a terrible thing. Maybe there was a time when he'd have thought that the worst of tortures, being stuck with Sam Tyler. But even the best of men can change, and Gene feels like this is some sort of change for the good.

So, no talking. Not now, and maybe not later. Just accepting the change for what it is, something inevitable. Even Sam must see that. Better now than he was before, at trusting his gut.

Such a good idea this had been, shutting his eyes as he listens to the steady pattern of of Sam's quiet breathing. Yes, a very good idea – he'd not doubted himself at all.

Sam's sleeping now, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Gene's reminded of how he's still one big bruise, and one Gene's no doubt added to, in his own special way. Well, Sam hadn't wanted to be gentled, and Gene's good enough at giving a person what they think they need.


End file.
